Lethe
by Iambic Pentameter
Summary: In which some people forget, other people remember, and surprisingly few lives are lost. (Slash: SpRace. Also includes violence and language. Whee.)
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Newsies, would this be posted on ? No. Ergo, I do not own Newsies.

**A/N:** This was previously posted under the name of _Forgetfulness and Remembrance_, but I hated how it was turning out. So, I rewrote it.It is now much better. Leastways, _I _think it's better.

**Prologue**

Hidden by the brick of an alley wall stood a silent figure, cloaked by insubstantial shadows. Every night he had stood in the same place, watching, waiting, planning. Every night he drew closer to his goal. He was a hunter, and he knew his prey.

In only a few minutes, the quarry would come down the street. He would pass the alley in which the hunter lay in wait and continue for a distance of just over ten feet. There, he would be met by the _other_, the reason this quarry had to be brought down. They would stay there, _together_, until it was past midnight. Then they would part and the quarry would briefly pause, alone while the _other _retreated farther into Manhattan. After a few moments, the quarry would leave also, in the direction of the Brooklyn Bridge. So it happened every night. The hunter knew. He had let the quarry pass by each night so that he could discover every detail of his movements.

But not this night. Tonight, it was time. Tonight, he would strike.

When the _other _was gone and the quarry was leaving, the hunter would attack. It would be fast, and strong, and _final_.

Now, the hunter's ears picked up the sound of footsteps, and he saw the quarry. He was so close; it would be so easy to strike now…. But he had to wait. It had to be done so that none would see the body until morning. So that no one would suspect the hunter. Yes, when the _other _was gone, he would attack, according to plan, and it would be over.

The quarry's footsteps carried him past the alley. The hunter slid into the shadows and behind a broken, twisted heap of garbage that would conceal him quite well. It was excellent; the debris was just the right size to hide him. Just as he'd planned. He would go unnoticed until it was time, and then… He would strike.

Oh, how perfectly he would strike! The heavy wooden club in his hand was a crude weapon, but it would serve its purpose well indeed. He could practically _hear _the wonderful crack of wood against bone that would ring out when his weapon connected with the quarry's head. His victory would be flawless.

Down the street, the moonlight gave the quarry an ethereal, superhuman quality. Leaning as he was against a dilapidated building, his fair features contrasted sharply against the grimy stone of his surroundings. His eyes gleamed intensely out of the darkness, wary and impatient. He looked invincible.

But the hunter knew better than that. This quarry was no more unassailable than any other, though so few people seemed to realize it. His followers' fear and awe of him were what made Spot Conlon dangerous. He thought that no one would ever go against him, that no one would dare. So he did not guard himself as well as he might have. Someone else, someone worse might find the very weaknesses the hunter was planning to exploit and destroy Spot, throwing his domain into chaos. The hunter could not allow that to happen, not when Spot's greatest weakness was what it was.

It was indeed the most terrible kind of weakness: the kind that made you feel powerful when in fact you were all the weaker for it. Spot Conlon's weakness was not a past he kept secret, or a physical impairment, or even a substance to which he was addicted. No. It was a person: the _other, _who was walking toward the quarry this very moment.

The _other _was very different from the quarry, and not just physically. He was chaos, while Spot was control. He was the epitome of outgoing; he would do almost anything to make people laugh. He lied and cheated and disregarded the law. Granted, most people of the _other's _social standing did those things, but not nearly to the same degree. He was named Racetrack, and he was dangerous, especially around the quarry.

Spot and Racetrack stood together now, surrounded by gloom and shadows. This part of town was close to deserted, so the only sounds that cut through the stillness of the night were their voices and the sounds of their movements.

This was the only part the hunter did not watch. He knew what would happen now: the two would lean toward each other, they would embrace, they would _kiss_. The hunter turned his head away in disgust. He did not need to see _this_.

For what seemed like an eternity, the hunter lurked in the dark, waiting for Racetrack to leave. It took so long, and he was so close. So close…

His plan was faultless, he knew. He had every infinitesimal detail planned. Violence held not nearly so much joy as did the completion of a plan. Success was glory, and he would succeed. He had to. For the good of Brooklyn.

Finally, the _other _was gone. Spot would wait a few seconds, as he always did. Then he would walk back to where he came from, and to do so, he would pass the hunter's haunt. It was then that the hunter would eradicate him.

Just as Spot drew even with the alleyway, the hunter stood silently and stealthily. He moved forward in a swift, deadly flash, club raised. But sure as he was that he had planned perfectly, something happened that had not occurred to him.

The quarry turned around.

It was not much of a deviation from plan, but it was enough to throw the hunter off. When Spot saw him and his eyes widened in recognition and surprise, the hunter's aim wavered slightly. His blow fell, certainly, but it was more glancing than he had wanted. Luckily, the quarry fell to the ground even so, and the plan was completed anyway.

The hunter berated himself mentally for his lapse. He should have known that Spot would turn; he was coming at him from the side and there _was_ such thing as peripheral vision! He was fortunate; he had not paid for his stupidity. Next time he would be more careful.

Smiling, the hunter cast his club into the heap of garbage that had hidden him. He _had _achieved success, even if he'd erred slightly. Kneeling next to his quarry, the hunter slid the gold-tipped cane out of his grip. Then, he stood and turned away, exhilaration filling his being.

He was a hunter, and he had taken down his prey.

* * *

**Acknowledgements:**

**Buttons14, studentnumber24601, The Second Batgirl, and parkranger**—for reviewing this when it was _Forgetfulness and Remembrance_. I'm sorry I can't respond to your reviews.

**The girl who read my notebook without asking**—through your rudeness, you made me get off my lazy butt and write. That said, go die.

But especially to **B**—for betaing. Thank you so much.


	2. Chapter One: In which there are no missi...

**Disclaimer: **Not mine? Not mine.

**Chapter One**

**In which there are no missing appendages**

Race is not a patient person. He also has no medical training whatsoever.

Neither of these facts bode well for Spot's health.

Earlier, when Race was walking home from pretending to earn a living, he passed by the alley in which he's now sitting. He figured that no matter how much it seemed like it, the body lying prone behind a pile of garbage couldn't have been Spot, because what would he have been doing in Manhattan at this time of day, and besides, Spot Conlon isn't _allowed_ to get hurt.

Now, as he sits beside his unconscious friend, Race remembers that the universe doesn't play by the rules.

Carefully, Race rolls Spot over so that he can see his face. It is slack and expressionless. If Race didn't know for a fact that Spot smiles while he sleeps, he would swear that Spot has randomly decided to take a nap in a deserted alley.

When he checks Spot for injuries, Race discovers that the wound the size of a generic citrus fruit on his head is the only one. And nasty as it looks, covered in dried blood, at least that blood is _dry_. Still, though it is gratifying to know that his friend is not bleeding to death, missing important appendages, suffocating, or otherwise rushing off the mortal coil, it is disconcerting to realize that Spot didn't have time to fight back.

Because that means that Spot was ambushed, and Race doesn't want to think about why that would have happened, thank you very much.

Race has this game he likes to play when he's stressed and there's nothing better he can do. He likes to call it, "Let's find out how many times it is humanly possible to fit the word 'fuck' into one sentence." When he finishes playing a round just now, he is proud of himself. Five times in one sentence. Nice.

Unfortunately, God is not as impressed with that high score as Race is, and does not see fit to wake Spot up just yet.

Race swears again, this time in a much less drawn-out way. He can't just leave Spot in an alley. That would be heartless, and cruel, and some random thug would probably come along and steal all of Spot's possessions. Including his clothes. Which would not be good, because Race is the only one who's allowed to see Spot naked.

He will have to carry him to the Manhattan lodging house.

There are several problems with this course of action, among them that Spot will be missed in Brooklyn. Granted, if he was ambushed, someone else has probably already taken control of Brooklyn. And besides, Race doubts that he has enough upper body strength to carry Spot all the way to Brooklyn. The lodging house is much closer.

Trying very hard not to injure him further, Race hoists Spot into his arms. Apparently, just because someone looks like he weighs less than a victim of consumption doesn't mean that he actually _does_.

Race will never make that assumption again.

He gets less than twenty steps before he realizes that maybe there is an easier way to do this and he should probably stop and find out. He shifts uncomfortably. Then, he decides that it will be hard for him to increase the severity of Spot's injury just by moving and spends several minutes trying to find a position in which he can carry Spot without severely injuring _himself_. He settles on something that probably would only occur in nature if Spot dropped off the top of a building, landed on Race's back and tried simultaneously to strangle and hug him.

It isn't exactly graceful, but it works.

It's late in the day, and the sun is loitering at the edge of the horizon. The light is so bad that Race doesn't notice at first when Spot has opened his eyes. Until, of course, he speaks.

"…Hi?" Spot says. Race jumps, and cranes his head around to see him.

"Hi." He says. He stares for a few moments before realizing that this must be quite an uncomfortable position and that Spot can probably walk on his own now.

He drops Spot very suddenly. Spot does not seem very happy about this.

"Where am I?" He asks. There is no sarcasm in his voice, which is surprising, considering that this is Spot and he's not in a very good mood.

"Manhattan." Race says. He's too surprised to be witty.

"I see. Who're you?" Obviously, Spot is joking. He and Race know each other _very _well.

"The most brilliant, talented, and amusing person in the world. Of course."

"And modest, too."

"I learned from the best."

"Who exactly is the best?"

Right. That was an odd way to respond. Spot is acting weird. Race wonders exactly how hard he got hit on the head. He doesn't ask, though.

It's not the right time.

"Let's go." Race says abruptly, deciding not to think about why Spot would say something that strange and ambiguous.

"Where?"

"Where do you _think_?" He's not in the mood for this. He's too tired, by far.

Spot shrugs. He really is acting strangely, but there's nothing Race can do about that at the moment. He starts off in the direction of the lodging house, assuming Spot will follow.

When the silence becomes so heavy it begins to develop its own tangible gravitational field, Race decides it's time to start a conversation.

"Nice weather we're having." Hey, he didn't say anything about it being witty.

"It's about to rain." Spot is looking at him as though he's insane.

"So?"

"So how is that good weather?"

"It's not."

"And yet you said it was."

"Contradicting reality is my greatest talent."

"You are a very strange person."

"Thanks."

"Sure."

Spot's sounding more like himself now. Maybe he was just disoriented. Race certainly hopes so.

When they are getting closer to the lodging house, Race stops. Spot is a second behind him and has to turn around. Apparently, whatever happened to him dulled his reflexes, too.

Before Spot can say anything, Race speaks.

"You're staying here tonight." He says. It is not a request. Race is pretty much the only person on the planet who can get away with ordering Spot to do something.

"Alright." Usually, he argues for a while, if only for pride's sake. But Race isn't complaining about this sudden agreeableness. Not at _all_. He and Spot start walking again.

When they reach the lodging house, it is dark out. However, it must be light enough to read, because Spot glances up at the sign, an unreadable expression on his face. It looks like he's simultaneously frowning and smirking. Race wonders how that's possible.

But of course, Spot Conlon can do anything. _Everyone_ knows that.

As soon as they enter, the entire room is staring at them. At first, Race can't think why. Spot comes here _almost_ regularly, so his presence shouldn't be _that _surprising.

And then Race remembers that major head wounds do tend to attract attention.

"Come on," He says, "You should wash your hair before people start thinking you're the living dead."

Spot follows him to the washroom wordlessly. He seems tense. Wary. Almost as though he expects to be attacked at any moment. He relaxes a little when he and Race are alone, though not by much.

Spot goes to the sink and turns the faucet. Then, his fingers pause at the top button of his shirt as he glances at Race.

Race raises an eyebrow.

"What?" He asks. It's not like it's anything he hasn't seen before.

"I… nothing. Never mind." Spot finishes unbuttoning his shirt and drops it beside him. Then, he leans forward, and winces as the water hits the injury on his head.

Race grimaces. It's obviously a bad angle. Spot can't see what he's doing, and he'll probably just hurt himself. Race walks over to him.

"Here. I'll do it." He says, and knocks Spot's hands out of the way before he can protest.

As Race works at Spot's blood-matted hair, he casually, drapes an arm around Spot's shoulders to get at it better. Spot tenses at the contact, but doesn't say anything. He stares down to where blood discolors the basin of the sink a pale rose.

"Could have done it myself." Spot mutters, finally breaking the silence.

"Sure you could have. But then I would have missed the chance to pick apart a disgusting mass of blood and dirt, and we all know that's my very favorite hobby." Race replies. The silence ensues once more, and the only sound is that of the water pouring out of the faucet. Then, Race speaks again.

"So what happened?" He's delayed asking long enough.

"Uh. Nothing much."

"Huh. Must have been a really violent nothing much."

"Yeah, well," Spot straightens up, pushing Race backward, "I think you got it all out, so…"

He didn't yet, and they both know it.

"You don't have to tell me about it if you don't want to." Race says. He doesn't know what's wrong, but he figures it won't do any good to argue the point.

"Nah. 'S alright. I'm just tired." Spot is buttoning his shirt, refusing to meet Race's eyes. That's odd, too; Spot usually stares you down even when he's uncomfortable. But everything about Spot has been strange today, and Race can't think of anything to do about it.

"Okay," He says, "Just… are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm _fine_." Spot turns and leaves the washroom.

Race waits a few moments and follows.

* * *

**A/N: **There are three things I hate more than anything else in the world. They are: people, stupidity, and losing my notebook.

Hephaestion—He lives!

Munch—Well, I seem to have answered exactly none of your questions. Sorry about that. All will be revealed in time, I swear.

B—Yeah, I like this version better, too. It's more logical.

Thanks to all three of you for the compliments.


End file.
